


gentleness can hurt if you're broken

by thewolvescalledmehome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jonsa Summer Challenge, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 00:05:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11497620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: When Sansa escapes her abusers she wants to go home, but couldn't bear to see the pain she would cause her family, so she goes to the next best thing: Jon Snow.Or where Sansa doesn't realize that sometimes putting two broken things together can make something whole.For Day 5 of the Jonsa S7 Summer Challenge: Firsts or Dreams (Firsts)





	gentleness can hurt if you're broken

Sansa was pretending to be asleep still, and had been for the past twenty or so minutes. Jon’s rough, calloused but intensely gentle fingertips were drawing patterns on her exposed shoulder. She knew Jon would never do that if he thought she was awake. She’d woken up to his soft touches before, and had made the mistake of actually showing she was awake. Jon’s hand had left her as if he’d been burned, and he’d avoided her for the rest of the day. She’d learned, since then, if she wanted it to continue, as she always did, she had to pretend to be asleep.

 

Sansa had shown up on his doorstep more than six months ago, and he let her in with no questions asked. She knew he would, which was why she went there. She had wanted to go home, but she couldn’t, not yet. She couldn’t see the pain she would cause if they had seen her in the state she’d been, jumping at every sound, recoiling from every touch. She couldn’t watch the way Ned would keep his distance, the way Catelyn would be overbearing in trying to help, Robb would be overprotective, Arya would be angry and want to hurt whatever had hurt her sister, and Bran and Rickon wouldn’t understand, or Bran might, but he would pretend not to. She needed her family, but she couldn’t bear to let them see her broken, so she went to the next best thing: Jon Snow.

If the state of her when she appeared caused him pain, he didn’t show it. That was why she went to him. He’d seen broken things before—been broken himself. He would understand why she screamed out in the night, why she hated the dark, disliked loud noises but couldn’t stand the silence, how she needed to be held but hated for anyone to touch her. Jon would protect her. She was as safe with him as she was with family.

The first month was filled with awkward questions followed by half truthful answers, Jon sleeping on the couch, despite her protests, the lights being kept on throughout the night. He would hover around her whenever he could, staying both close and at a distance. It was reassuring, that she’d made the right choice in going to Jon, that she could still make good choices.

It was in her second month of staying with him that she got enough courage that, after they went to bed, she came back out to the sofa where he was sleeping, and curled up next to him. That had been the first time she’d woken up to his feather light touches. That had been the time she’d moved closer because it had been so _long_ since she’d let anyone touch her, and even longer since anyone touched her with that much care. As soon as she did though, he stopped, and it was months before he touched her again.

When Sansa was starved for Jon to hold her again, when she wanted proof that she wasn’t so beyond repair that he could touch her without disgust, she again made the trek from his bedroom to the sofa. This time though, she didn’t crawl in next to him. She took his hand and pulled him to the bed, wrapping his arms around her to fall asleep.

That became their nightly routine, yet Jon would only touch her if she put his hands on her. Unless she was sleeping. Then he would touch her gently, fingers tracing the length of her arm, from the tip of her middle finger to the curve of her shoulder. He would outline her silhouette, his palm just ghosting against her skin. It was soft enough that it would tickle, were she ticklish. On her back, he would connect her freckles and marks into constellations, as though the imperfections in her skin were beautiful stars. If she had any tears left, she would cry at the tenderness of it, and she would gladly shed tears over something so loving for once, instead of the other hateful and cruel reasons she used to cry.

That was why she was still pretending to be asleep.

 

She waited until he stopped on his own to turn over and show that she was awake. She was quick enough that she saw the soft look in his grey eyes before he could hide it. _He’s very good at hiding it_ , she thought. She only ever saw it in moments like these, when he was either too tired or too captivated to push the feeling down.

“Breakfast?” he suggested quietly. Even when he pushed the feelings down, the look in his eyes was so gentle it almost hurt. She wanted to reach up and touch the scar that curved around his eye, but she knew she wouldn’t. That would suggest that there was something between them, something more than companionship between two broken people.

“I’ll be out in a minute.” He nodded, giving her one last look before heading for the kitchen, flicking the hall light off as he went.

Sansa stayed in bed a moment longer, knowing that as soon as she joined him in the kitchen their relationship would change, the way it did every morning. There were two versions of them: the ones that existed in the daylight hours, where they would coexist with no lingering glances or faint touches. Those only survived at night, in the room. In the day they were tenuous friends. In the night they were almost lovers.

Their days passed as they typically did: Jon leaving for work, Sansa tidying up the apartment wherever she could. She left university before she got her degree, so she wasn’t qualified to do anything. She did what she could around the apartment to make up for the fact she couldn’t put anything toward the rent.

 

* * *

 

Months went by with only small things changing. Sansa didn’t wake up in a cold sweat as often. Jon didn’t hesitate quite as much when holding her at night. Sansa didn’t jump at every unexpected sound. Jon wasn’t able to hide the look in his eye as often.

It was that look that caused Sansa to get the idea in her head. She was anxious to get her first time since over with, to have every other time erased and replaced with a pleasant, loving memory. She knew Jon would never hurt her, and if it was too much he’d stop without question. Part of her hated herself for what she would be doing to Jon, she knew it would mean something to him and she’d let him believe meant something to her as well. But part of her knew it was something she had to do, and it was something she could do with Jon.

Sansa went about it slowly. Partially because while Jon knew bits and pieces, he didn’t know everything, and while he’s seen bits and pieces of her, he hadn’t seen everything. He knew about some of her scars, both the physical and emotion, but not all of them. She didn’t want all of that to happen at the same time. The other part of it was that she knew it was going to change things, and she wasn’t ready for that quite yet. She wasn’t ready for Jon to look at her differently, and she knew he would, be it the look he so often stomped down, or a look of regret. She doubted that she could stand either of them.

The worst of it was her legs. Jon hadn’t seen her legs since before, and what was on her legs was something he didn’t know about. Once it was warm enough to warrant wearing shorts to bed, Sansa asked to borrow a pair of Jon’s boxers to use as shorts, as she didn’t own any anymore. She hadn’t for quite some time. She changed in the bathroom, as she usually did, but hesitated outside the bedroom door. Jon must’ve seen her shadow in the hall, because he called out to her, asking if everything was all right.

“Fine…it’s just. Please don’t be disgusted by me,” she whispered. His pause was almost enough to have her running back to the bathroom to pull on the pants instead.

“Sansa, I could never be disgusted by you. You’re beautiful.” _Even when you’re broken_ she finished in her head.

“It’s just… you haven’t seen everything yet.”

“Whatever it is, Sansa, it won’t change anything.” _You say that now_ a bitter voice echoed. It took her a second to realize it was hers, and she’d said it out loud. “There’s nothing you could do that would change anything.”

“You… You should know though, before you see it. It wasn’t done to me,” she bit the words out slowly, and stepped in before he could ask what the last statement meant.

His eyes travelled slowly, and Sansa had to look away before he saw what she was talking about. She couldn’t watch the realization dawn of what her statement meant. Though she hoped it would. She doubted she could say _I did it to myself_ if it came to it.

“Sansa…” She was looking anywhere but his face or her legs. She didn’t need to see the dozens of neat lines that puckered her skin, turning the tops of her thighs into something that resembled barcodes more than legs.

“Please, don’t, Jon.” She wrapped her arms around herself, eyes misting with tears that she knew wouldn’t fall. They didn’t get that far anymore. She couldn’t hear his question of _why, why would you do that to yourself?_ She had an answer—it gave her control; _she_ was the one making the lines on her body, not him. It was how she got the strength to finally get away—but she didn’t think Jon would understand, no matter how much he tried.

“All right.” The tone of his voice caused her heart to ache and she heard the catch in his throat. She climbed into bed without looking at him, but was flooded with relief when he didn’t put his hand in its usual spot on her hip, instead resting it over her scars. His hand was burning hot against skin that hadn’t felt any touch in years.

 

* * *

 

It was days later when Jon brought up the subject of her legs. She’d worn shorts to bed every night since then, relishing in the feel of the sheets against her legs. Jon had been so good about it, acting as though he didn’t see her as even more broken than he had before. Or at least, he had been.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispered, his chest pressed to her back. His fingers were just grazing the line that separated that marked the edge of her scars.

“No.”

“Not… not about these, necessarily. About any of it. I know you’ve told me parts, but…” Sansa rolled over to face him, shifting away from him in the process.

“I can’t, Jon. Not yet, I can’t.” He looked as though her words pained him, but he nodded anyway.

“All right.”

 

* * *

 

When Jon didn’t bring it up again, Sansa thought it was finally time. She wanted Jon to be her first. The first one who mattered, at least. She knew she couldn’t say that to him though. He would try to talk her out of it, tell her it wasn’t a good idea.

The night she decided to do it—it marked just over a year since she’d shown up and she thought that was fitting, she took longer in the bathroom. It wasn’t as a delay, exactly, she was just waiting until he was in bed first. It would be easier that way, she thought. She spent the extra few minutes brushing out her hair, the one thing that remained undamaged and wholly beautiful about her.

When she came to bed, she left the hall light on and the door open enough that the light came into the room, as one of them did every night. She crawled in next to him, but instead of lying down like she normally would, she slid one leg over his torso, so that she was straddling him.

“Sansa…what…?” His hands went immediately to her hips, though she wasn’t sure if he intended to hold her there or take her off. She finally let herself trace the scar she’s always wanted to. She wanted to ask how he got it too, but that would invite him to ask about her own scars.

“I want you to be my first, Jon. I trust you.” Jon couldn’t push down the look this time, and it took over his face. He pushed into her hand, allowing her fingers to span from his hairline to his beard.

“Are you sure?” She nodded and a small worry line formed between his brows. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said this time. Jon turned his head to kiss her palm.

Jon was kind and gentle and slow and after almost every kiss he would ask _are you sure_? He kissed every inch of her before he let her touch him. He was focused solely on her pleasure and it was as if he didn’t care any for his own. His eyes were as gentle as his hands and at no point did they leave her own. It was everything a first time should be, and it broke Sansa’s heart that it wasn’t actually her first time.

Afterwards, Jon held her in his arms the way a lover always should. This time, she didn’t have to pretend to be asleep to have his fingers mapping the stars on her back. At least, she didn’t think she had to pretend, but then he said something that gave her reason to believe that he was under the impression that she was actually asleep.

“I love you,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder before snuggling down next to her.

Sansa hoped he couldn’t feel her heart galloping throughout her entire body, her pulse pounding like a bass drum. She never thought it would be those words that would cause her body to react the same way it had when she finally made the decision to run.

She bit her lip, fighting the urge to do what her body was pleading with her to do. She couldn’t run away from Jon, not after everything he’d done for her. But she couldn’t stay here, not with the false pretense and him finally admitting out loud what she’d seen in his eyes for months. She didn’t want to cause him any pain in staying, keeping him at a distance when what he wanted was someone to love him back. That wouldn’t be fair to him.

Plus, once she’d gone, he would realize that she was broken and not worth it. He deserved someone whole, who didn’t need to sleep with the hall light on because she was scared of the dark, who didn’t have scars across her thighs. He deserved someone who could love him back.

She was awake half the night, sick thinking about those words. After the shock started to wear off, Sansa realized she was angry. She was angry that he said it while he thought she was sleeping and not to her face. Even Jon, the gentlest soul, couldn’t bear to say that he loved her to her face.

That’s what put Sansa over the edge. She didn’t think those words would ever hurt her, but the fact he couldn’t tell her while she was awake was wounding. Before she could think too much about it, she wiggled out from under his arm, thankful for the hall light so she could find her few belongings without turning on the lamp. If she was quiet and quick, she could be gone before Jon woke up.

Sansa thought it would be better this way, slipping out in the dead of the night. Having to say goodbye to Jon would break her even further, and she didn’t think she could handle that. She didn’t want to see the pain, the hurt, the confusion when she’d say that she was leaving. She wouldn’t be able to explain why. He would think it was his fault, blame himself, when really it was just her, and if she told him that she was too broken to be loved he would argue. This was the only way.

Sansa was dressed, bag slung over her back, looking like she had when she arrived, only marginally less broken than she had been that day. She made it to the kitchen when the light flicked on. She heard the quite footsteps behind her, but she knew if she turned around, she would change her mind.

“Sansa, wait…” he started. Sansa closed her eyes. She expected him to sound angry at her leaving in the dead of night like a bad one-night stand. The fact that he sounded shattered caused her to heart to break even further, as she knew it would if she was forced with saying goodbye to the one person who was so good to her.

She could hear him behind her still, and he was giving her reasons to stay, all of it causing her to ache. Her vision blurred and when she closed her eyes, a tear rolled down her cheek at the kindness of his voice and his words.

She couldn’t say anything. There was nothing she could say. There was nothing _he_ could say that would make her change her mind, make her stay. There was no way he could understand why she had to leave, why she couldn’t turn around and say goodbye.

She couldn’t listen any more, nothing he was saying would change her mind anyway.

Sansa was moving, the door in front of her, her hand on the knob, turning it, opening, the hallway in front of her. She couldn’t stop, now that she was this close.

 

“Sansa, please, don’t go. I love you.”

 

 

She stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a sweet fluffy little 'the first time he says I love you' fic. I don't know what happened. I'm sorry.


End file.
